


Four Nights

by Dogwood



Series: More Than Most [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Skyhold, Smut, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogwood/pseuds/Dogwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas mulls over his love for Lavellan. Short and mildly smutty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Nights

**Author's Note:**

> A twin piece to Antlers, an earlier story from Lavellan's POV.

The first night he'd visited her room it had been a much needed, long awaited moment of respite for them both. He'd moved to kiss her goodbye at the top of the stairs, but lingered a minute longer than he should've, then an hour longer, and when he woke in the morning, an arm draped across her smooth, bare back, he knew that he'd lost a crucial battle. A battle he'd fought with waning enthusiasm.

The second night, immediately following the first, had been no less enjoyable, and with it came the uneasy realization that this - whatever this was - was entering dangerous territory, no simpler to stop than the mountainside that had buried Haven. He was going to visit her a third night, he knew, and there was very little he could do to stop it.

She was so easy to kiss, this young Dalish woman- he found himself reaching for her wrist in the stairwell, in the wine cellar, in the sunlit hall to the war room. She consumed his waking thoughts and distracted him from important dreams, but it was difficult to mind such things when she smiled at him from behind her wine glass at dinner. 

One afternoon in the rotunda he found himself standing at a bare patch of wall, charcoal in hand, thinking not of composition or colour temperature, but of her taste as she pressed her forehead against the wall above his narrow headboard, while beneath her, his tongue coaxed quiet gasps and disbelieving curses from her lips, breathed against Skyhold's lonely stones. She'd tried to squirm away, to return the favour, but his hands had remained fast on her hips, and long, soft licks between her legs finally drew forth a moan that could've caused all the ravens in the rookery to take wing.

She'd licked his mouth after, a hand on his jaw, and he'd responded by slipping an arm around her waist and rolling her onto her back against his modest straw mattress. She'd wrapped her legs around his hips and he'd unspooled in her arms, moving against her, only dimly aware of her nails at his back.

"Vhenan..."

She'd sought him out in the stable, pressing him against the wooden wall, her hands sliding up the knit of his tunic, her arms wrapping about his neck, whispering her intentions in her pleasing modern accent. 

Intentions that she made sure to follow through on when the sun set.

On the fourth night she'd shed her clothes, left them in a trail from her bedroom door to the top of the stairs and leaned across the made bed, bent at the waist. Her eyes narrowed as she peered expectantly over her shoulder, and as a result, he missed a meeting with his best informant.

Ar lath ma, ar lath ma, ar lath ma.

And in a sea of lies, he'd spoken no truer words. 

Each night they grew bolder, stayed up later, only to wake in the morning happy but exhausted, their limbs heavy with lack of sleep. They were reckless with love, and it was only by the virtue of the constant bustling of Skyhold that no one noticed. 

In sleep they became inseparable. She refused to let him go far, and he had no great urge to resist. She would drape her slight form over him, breathing softly by his ear, their bodies warm, almost hot where they met. Or he would draw her in, resting his chin lightly against her shoulder, the backs of her thighs pressed along the tops of his. Once he awoke to find them sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, save their hands, fingers woven together between them. He'd smiled through a haze of sleep and soon retreated back to the Fade.

In the morning, if there was time, they would start again. He'd wake to her climbing over him, still slick with him from the night before, and he needed no prompting as he pulled her close. They kissed, ignoring the sounds of Skyhold as it roused itself far below, and he watched her eyes as he pushed inside, saw them close, saw her swallow or take a deep breath or curse, and when she said his name he pushed all the harder.

One morning when they'd finished, panting and spent, the sheets half off the bed, she'd turned to face him, her hand brushing away a loose lock of hair. "I'm glad you came back," she'd said, and it was such a simple thing, but his heart seized in his chest. 

It was impossible. All of it was impossible. They'd been fated, such as it was, to take different paths the moment she'd touched the orb, and he was fooling himself if he thought otherwise. He'd been fooling himself for months.

The two masks he wore fought on a daily basis. One insisted on telling her the truth, on accepting her response, whatever it may be. The other, unflinching, was quick to remind him that she had little enough time left, and it was not only strategically unsound but cruel to destroy that which she'd built.

The two masks fought, until finally one relented.

"Would you pass the apples," she'd said at breakfast the following week, and he did ("Certainly.") keeping his gaze on the book he was reading, lest he meet her eyes and slip back into Solas instead of the wolf that he was.


End file.
